by Rog Phillips
notepad, wondering howhis publicity boys had missed this one. He stood up and came around hisdesk. "You leave it to me," he said. "You won't have a thing to worryabout. I'll take care of everything."
"Then you won't publish it?"
Browne was guiding him toward the door. "You leave it to me. Drop inagain soon. If you need money just drop in any time and I'll fix youup."
Fred found himself outside the door, not quite sure what Mr. Browne hadpromised.
Inside, Browne went back to his desk, muttering, "What a killing! Haveto tell Nichols about it tomorrow at lunch. That vanishing stuff is aterrific publicity angle."
* * * * *
"You still don't want to tell me what's troubling you?" Police CaptainWaters said wistfully.
A frown crossed Fred's features and vanished into a smile. "Nothing'stroubling me," he lied. "I'm all right. I'll be all right."
"You'll stay with us a while longer?"
"Sure. Sure. You make me feel--okay. I'm just going out for a ride. Beback for supper."
* * * * *
It had been two months now since his mother and Curt had vanished. Inthat two months he had come to realize something. He didn't quite knowhow to express it even in his thoughts.
It wasn't that he didn't want to vanish. He would, some day. But he hadgiven up trying. It was the wrong way. The others hadn't tried. It hadjust come to them out of a clear sky.
Some day it would come to him that way, and he would welcome it.
He drove downtown and parked. A block away was a show he wanted to see.He started toward it. Abruptly he stopped. In front of him was abookstore. In its window was a large display, and every book had hisfather's picture on the front under the title THEORY FOR THE MILLIONS.
In back of the display was a large poster with a still larger picture,and the teaser--(DO YOU DARE READ THIS BOOK?)
Anger flamed in Fred's mind. The anger died as abruptly as it had come.It was replaced by a homesickness, a longing. Unconsciously hisfootsteps carried him into the store.
A man had the book in his hands.
"You aren't going to buy _that_, George," the woman beside him wassaying.
"And why not?" the man asked, laughing. "I've never turned down a darein my life!" He looked at the girl waiting on him. "Do you think I'llvanish, Miss?"
The clerk smiled. "I wouldn't know. I have strict orders not to read thebook."
A solemn-faced man appeared out of nowhere and thrust a copy of the bookat the clerk. "I want this, please," he said.
"I'll be with you in a moment, sir," the clerk said.
Others were waiting also.
Fred stumbled from the store, bumping into someone in the doorway as hewent through, and too confused and frightened to stop and apologize.There was no way of stopping it. Maybe the police would become alarmedat the disappearances.
"What's wrong with me?" he mumbled, walking blindly in the crowds on thesidewalks. "Maybe I do lack the ability to believe. I _think_ I believe.What have I missed?"
Only he, of all those who had learned the theory, had not vanished. Wasfaith, then, something so common, and yet impossible for he, himself, toreach?
Ahead was another bookstore. In its windows were the same displays.
He stopped. People were pushing through the doors. Inside they werepicking up the book and looking for a clerk.
The clerks were smiling and saying things Fred couldn't hear, andwrapping the books and handing them to their new owners--people whowould take them home and read--and vanish.
Into what? Something they would see, and smile at, and say, "Why, ofcourse!" And with a simple acceptance they would enter it.
He watched them.
And from the depths of his being Fred longed to be one of them; to beable to go in and buy the book, and read it, and....
* * * * *
On the other side of the window, in the store, a clerk was waiting on acustomer. The customer turned to look at him, with his nose flattenedagainst the glass. He didn't see them. In his eyes was a faraway look, astartled light.
"Why of course!" he said in quiet wonder.
There was just a little blur, where a nose had pressed against thewindow, and the customer frowned and said to the clerk, "That young manoutside--he--he--"
"Three-fifty, please," the clerk said.
"Ah--oh. Oh, sure."
